


Mistakes of Our Past Don't Hold The Future.

by Wikiaddicted723



Category: Fringe
Genre: Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-04
Updated: 2012-10-04
Packaged: 2017-11-15 15:08:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wikiaddicted723/pseuds/Wikiaddicted723
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Late night musings of a new parent, and that small inkling of doubt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistakes of Our Past Don't Hold The Future.

**Author's Note:**

> I fell in love with Daddy!Peter and his relationship with Etta. Thus, this little thing that should not even be called a fic came to be.

The house is quiet, dark. Only the intermittent sounds of the sleeping city mark the passing of time. The soft purr of a car’s engine as it passes through backroads, cutting through the suburbs to get home, headlights pale blue streaks that dance on the ceiling as they go by, synchronized. The barely perceptible sound of the kitchen clock, only recently unpacked. 

Peter breathes in, breathes out. It’s easy. Easier than it has ever been before, like he’s been outfitted with a new set of lungs. Unmoving, unblinking, he is at peace. Still, he can’t sleep. 

And he’s tired, oh he’s tired. He can feel it, bone deep, in the creaking of his knees every time he bends down, the week-old ache at the base of his neck, the pulsing pressure behind his eyes. But sleep means retreating, detaching from the world for hours at a time, and he can’t have that. 

His world is beautiful. It fits in the length of his forearm and hand, soft, tiny hands and legs all stretched out, featherlight and fragile as glass. Also solid, and incredibly real. His daughter.

_Henrietta._

They rest together, tonight, like they have every night for a week—the sum of her worldly experience so far. It’s a breather for Olivia, a routine they’ve established so she can get at least a few hours of sleep before the next late night feeding, somewhere between two and three in the morning, like clockwork. 

Chest to chest they lie, the tiny, translucent cartilage of her right ear flat against his heart. She likes rhythms, they’ve discovered, but she likes them on her terms. Her left ear is Olivia’s and only Olivia’s, meant for her breathing, her voice, the beat of her heart. Trying to make her change sides is a waste of time, and the certainty of unhappy mumbles and half-hearted cries (she’s a silent one, their Etta, doesn’t really cry out loud much). Peter then, has claimed the right. 

She’s sleepy but not yet asleep, eyelids half-mast, fingers twitchy and restless but slowing progressively the longer he keeps himself still. Small puffs of hot air drift on his sternum as they lie back on the couch, wisps of the palest blonde hair downy under the callused pads of fingers that can’t seem to stop drifting over still-too-pink skin. 

Peter stares. He runs his eyes over every feature again and again, memorizes every expression, the soft, mood-susceptible blue of her eyes in the dark of the night, so like his own. Olivia swears she’s but a blonder, chubbier, all-around lovelier version of him, but barring his eyes he sees only her. On the slope of her nose, the shape of her face, the little double lines that mimic a reproaching frown when she fuzzes, the intense gaze. He sees only her and thinks it’s better like that. 

He knows she’ll be strong, beautiful. Willful too. Knows her mind will be razor sharp, her eyes keen, her hands sure. Her smile will move mountains. But he wants her to also be wise, to be kind, to be humble. To be all the things he always lacked. The things only Olivia can teach her, the way she taught him. The way she still does, every day, every night.

The doubts are always there, in the back of his mind, lurking, mocking. Before Olivia, he never saw himself as a father. Never saw himself as a husband, even (and he isn’t one yet, but he’s about to get brave). It always meant having ties to the world, the responsibility a burden that dear old Peter could not be bothered to even think about carrying. It’s made him uncertain, almost ashamed. Above all, he wants to be worthy.

He nuzzles the top of her head, breathes in her soft baby scent. “I hope I don’t mess you up too much, kiddo.” It’s a whisper in the night, no more than that.

He knows what it’s like, to be the son of an absent father, to feel ignored and abandoned. And he promises himself, the same way he did when he first learned of their child, that he won’t be that man. Peter will be there. He’ll be there for her, protect her from harm. He’ll teach her to be better, to run but always come back. And one day she’ll stand on her own, and he’ll do what he’s always done best: he’ll have her back.

 


End file.
